


The Ecstasy

by radicalnothing



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Bottom Nero (Devil May Cry), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-01-24 05:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18564595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radicalnothing/pseuds/radicalnothing
Summary: Broke summary: waiting out a toxic rainstorm, Nero and V find themselves getting closer. Much closer.Woke summary: how many corny fic tropes (oh no, mutual pining! oh no, we're rained-in! oh no, you caught me in a precarious position! oh no, didn't know I was gay!) can I cram in alongside my shameless kinks (scrawny top! beefy bottom! fingerblasting! titfucking! drool!)? Let's find out!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *walks in seven years late with starbucks* Y’ALL WANNA SEE NERO GET HIS ASS PLAYED WITH?
> 
> this is an exercise in pure, nasty indulgence facilitated by ren, an absolute angel and fellow nastyclass attendee, who feeds me all the best dmc5 porn. also, I love to see An Big Beefy Boy getting absolutely wrecked!
> 
> also! i’ve messed with the timeline a little bit here because i like the thought of v and nero dancing around each other for a few months and getting super worked up before actually giving in and fucking each other’s brains out lmao. let’s say it’s been a little over three months since the Urizen fight! also, I know V quotes William Blake in the game, but I’ve got him citing some good ol’ 17th century metaphysical poetry by way of John Donne instead. why? because Blake’s a chump and the metaphysicists were horny af. *sunglasses emoji*
> 
> also, small warning: there's some mild gay panic in this fic on nero's side of things. it's meant more as "oh wow my first wiener!!" jitters than an actual identity crisis, but the subtleties aren't as clear in-story and i wanted to give a heads up to anyone trigged by that kind of rhetoric.

“Son of a bitch,” Nico grunts, teeth tight around her cigarette. Nero looks up from his magazine (a three month old issue of TITCITY he’d found under a disembodied hell caina leg, mostly legible) to see Nico glaring at a fat glob of what constitutes as rain in their demon-wrecked city—acrid, tarry stuff that scalds skin and chews through most metals. It’s the latter that concerns Nico, Nero knows, which is why she’s now scanning the road for a place to wait it out—carport, warehouse, hollowed-out apartment complex, anything big enough for three demon hunters and a live-in van.

“There.”

Nero jumps—suddenly, V’s with them, hunched between his and Nico’s seats, his black-marked arm cutting across Nero’s line of vision. He didn’t hear the other man approach, which isn’t unusual (doesn’t make it any less unsettling, though). Nero crams the magazine in the glovebox and squints ahead, following V’s gesture.

“Oh, hey— _shit_ ,” he says, spotting the garage just as Nico brakes, leaning hard into a combined right-turn-down-shift, swinging into the narrow opening with a wild holler. It’s rough (and a tight fit, they nearly lose a headlight), but effective—any demons hunkered down for an ambush were most certainly tire-pudding now.

Still. “Jesus Christ, Nico,” Nero grumbles, letting go of the overhead handle he’d unconsciously grabbed in the chaos. V makes a sound next to him, and Nero realizes he’s got the other man’s arm in a tight grip, too. Something goes light-sharp in his chest and he lets go, pulling away at what he hopes is an _extremely normal_ speed. “Sorry, V.” 

V, leaning heavily on his cane (not even ephemeral demon-wielders are immune to Nico’s driving, it seems), looks down at Nero. “It’s fine,” he says. He glances down at his arm, and—Nero _thinks_ —his mouth opens, but then he’s gone, bleeding back into the body of the van, muttering something to an irate Shadow.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Nico, yanking on the emergency break. “We’re posting up here tonight. From the looks of it,” here, she fiddles with the rearview mirror, watching the thickening rain, “this ain’t no April shower.” She grinds her cigarette out on the dash.

“I agree,” V says. He’s already stepping out of the van. Nero’s noticed that he doesn’t like to stay inside when they’re not driving. “Some good news, though—not even the demons can withstand this rain. We should be safe enough.”

“I’ll look around,” Nero says, climbing out after V, “and make sure we’re alone. Might even find some supplies.”

“Sounds good,” Nico says, already poking around the space for spare parts and tools. “Look for some food? I’m tired of eating grilled fuckin’ empusa.”

V says nothing. Nero doesn’t look, but he’s certain the other man is standing at the edge of the garage, watching the black rain fall.

* * *

The garage is attached to an old (but miraculously intact) brownstone, two stories tall and completely abandoned. Unlike most of their squats, this place isn’t smeared with blood, demon-ichor, and dehydrated Red Gravers—it’s just empty. Nero likes to think the residents were out of town with all hell (literally) broke loose; maybe they saw the news, never came back. They’re off somewhere with family, mourning their lost home but celebrating their survival. They’re happy. They’re safe.

And _rich_ , apparently. “Damn,” Nero whistles, scoping the second story bathroom. It’s huge, pristinely tiled (from what he can see in the limited light), and it boasts a wide, yawning tub in the center of the room. He checks the closet, the cabinets, the toilet (he’s extra thorough, here; last time he’d skimped on a bathroom check Nico’d nearly lost an asscheek to a Qliphoth tentacle). When he gets to the tub, he twists one of the white-capped knobs, even though he knows there’s no way this side of the city still has—but the faucet coughs, and Nero gasps at the sight of clean, steady water. “Well, shit.” 

Nero ducks out to finish checking the rest of the house. He finds two bedrooms (one’s attached to the fancy ass bathroom; the other is smaller, scattered with stuffed animals, and makes his chest ache), an office, living room, a small library ( _gotta tell V_ ), a variety of demon-less closets—

“—and this,” he says, tossing a can of baked beans at Nico.

“Beans!” she shouts, dropping a three-foot pipe (where did she get a three-foot pipe?) to catch the can.

“And plenty of other stuff,” Nero says. “The pantry’s basically stocked."

“That’s good,” V says from the far end of the garage. He’s still looking out into the rain, but then he turns and fixes Nero with one of his signature impenetrable stares. “I think we’ll be here longer than we expected. Days, possibly.”

Nero wants to ask V how he knows, wants to ask if he read it the rain. He wants to know if Griffon told him, or Shadow, or the other guy—Nightmare. There’s a lot of answers he wants from V, questions he’s gathered over their months together. He wants—he wants V to stop looking at him.

Nico lets out a cheerful yelp. “Looks like we’re on a staycation, boys,” she hums. “I can do some van repairs! And you,” she turns to look at Nero over her glasses, “can take a goddamn _bath_.”

Nero sputters. “What the hell does that mean?” Face reddening, he runs a hand through his hair—worried, suddenly, about how easy it is to slick back.

“It means,” Nico says, “you smell like a fuckin’ turtle tank. You know I don’t roll down the window to smoke—why do you think I’ve been doing it?”

Nero feels his face go hotter, and V—V actually _laughs_ , his dark gaze undone by a small, genuine smile. Between that and Nico’s ribbing, Nero suddenly wants to dive into hell and never come out.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, and he doesn’t sound at all like a scolded teenager. When he throws his devil breaker down on a nearby table, it’s because it’s heavy and he’s tired (not because he’s embarrassed). When the door slams on his way out, it’s because the house is old (not because he’s dizzed by V’s smile).

* * *

 

The water may be clean, but it’s not heated. Nero’s just grateful it hasn’t gone septic. He fills the tub with a shallow layer of water then strips quickly, keeping Blue Rose in reach—just in case. Even though he’s alone, he looks around before giving himself a meek, cursory sniff. He doesn’t think he smells _that_ bad...but maybe he’s just gotten used to it. Maybe being completely out of touch with his own stink is normal, now.

They’re calling a lot of weird shit normal these days.

Nero climbs into the tub; it’s big enough for him to prop himself against the ledge and stretch his legs all the way out, so he does, the room-temp water sloshing lightly over his shins and thighs. It’s been almost three months since V dragged him out of the Qliphoth, spitting blood and curses and Dante’s name, and in that time Nero has come to think of their unit as something familiar, though not quite familial. Nico’s indomitable driving barely phases him anymore, nor does his form-changing mechanical hand—or the hundreds of demons that have died on the other end of it. He isn’t bothered by the sick-looking sky, by the hellish roots curled around buildings and fracturing the sidewalks, and now, when he accidentally disturbs one of the thousands of delicate ash frames littering the city, he can usually wait until no one’s looking before retching in grief.

But V. There’s not a goddamn thing about V he can call normal. Not his powers, not his quips, not his little fucking demon pals. He could probably get past all of that if there wasn’t something... _else_ about V, something that whites out his mind when the other man’s around. Nero hasn’t been able to pinpoint that something, though he’s definitely tried.

He watches V more than he’d care to admit. Nico catches him doing it sometimes and gets the _shiteatingest_ grin, but he just punches her (with his not-magic fist) and tells her to shut it. It’s not that he doesn’t trust, V—if anything, it’s the opposite. He doesn’t understand why he’s so... _okay_ with V, despite not knowing where he’s from, who (or what) he really is. “Mysterious shadow wizard who quotes poetry and knows too much about the underworld” isn’t exactly Nero’s go-to description for a confidante. But V—well, V fights good. He tolerates (even keeps up with) Nero’s corny banter. He’s...interesting.

He remembers one night shortly after his fight with Urizen, he’d found V sitting in a loop of Qliphoth roots, reading his weird book out loud—no, not out loud, he was silent, but his lips moved anyway, forming shapes Nero could barely make out in the faint moonlight. He stayed there, watching, telling himself he was only trying to read V’s lips despite lacking the both patience and practice to do it. Still—he watched. He felt strangely thirsty.

“John Donne.” Sound suddenly accompanied the mouth-movements. Nero flinched. He was caught.

“Uh,” he’d said, “no. It’s Nero.” He watched the corner of V’s slide up into a smirk (a smirk he’d come to know well in the following months) as his book snapped shut.

“I remember your name, Nero,” he’d said, sliding from his seat. He wagged the book in Nero’s direction. “Donne’s a poet.”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Nero’d rubbed his nose, covering an embarrassed expression. “I’m not a big reader, I guess.”

V walked towards him slowly, his cane tapping on the gnarled ground. “I’m aware.” He’d stopped in front of Nero, looking just past him (he’d noticed, then, that V had a few inches on him). Then he’d snapped his gaze into Nero’s and recited: “These three hours that we have spent, / Walking here, two shadows went / Along with us, which we ourselves produc'd. / But, now the sun is just above our head, / We do those shadows tread, / And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd.”

It had taken everything in him to meet V’s eyes instead of skipping down to his mouth.

Now, stewing in his own lukewarm funk, Nero frowns. He peels a waxy chunk of what’s _probably_ soap from the ledge and scrubs it against his body. Aside from a general interest in turning the world rightside out, Nero can’t understand why V sticks around—and more than that, why he seems happy to do it. Or, well, he _thinks_ V’s happy—he smiles more now than when he first joined the team. They’re small smiles, quick as Griffon’s lightning, but Nero sees them. He likes catching them.

He splashes some water on his hair and soaps that up, too. Everything’s starting to smell like rosemary, so he rinses quickly, sluicing days (maybe weeks) of sweat and grime from his skin. It feels good, actually. He silently thanks Nico for the suggestion (if he can call it that) and stands, reaching for a—

“ _Towel._  Shit.” He doesn’t have one. He didn’t see any while scoping out the bathroom earlier. “Maybe in the bedroom,” he mutters to himself, trying not to slip on wet tile as reaches for the door.

And walks directly into another body.

Nero’s first reaction is combative. All he thinks is: _dark shape, very close, no gun no sword no hand fightfightfight,_ so he reaches up with his good arm and and grabs what he thinks is a shoulder, leaning forward, using his weight to take them both to the ground. It’s only after he hears the clatter of a cane and a short, startled huff that he realizes he’s bodychecking his teammate (friend?), V. By then, it’s too late to stop the motion, so Nero focuses instead on leveraging his body to the side so as not to smash his full weight down on the slimmer man.

“V!” he gasps, the wind knocked from his lungs (Nero’s taken harder falls with bigger foes, but he’s truly surprised by the other man’s presence; he’s also truly naked). “What the fuck, man,” he wheezes, trying to prop himself up but slipping on the now-wet floor. His face slams into V’s chest.

V’s saying something (pained, a little breathless), but Nero doesn’t hear it—or, well, he doesn’t _understand_ it, because he’s absolutely sense-blinded by the V’s skin against his, the rumble of his voice against his ear, the heat, the _heat_ —which surprises him, _why_ , why is he surprised by V’s warmth—

“ _Nero_ ,” V insists, and Nero snaps out of it, scrambling to sit up.

“S-sorry,” he stutters, shoving himself back. He manages to get up on his knees, but he’s flustered, unguarded—which means he’s defensive, his proverbial hackles raised. “But,” he hates this, he hates how he lashes out when he feels caught, but he can’t stop, can’t help the anger. “What the—what the hell were you doing, huh?" 

“I brought you a towel,” V says, voice thinner, annoyed—or, no, restrained? There’s something different in his breath, and it makes Nero feel even more off-balance. He refuses to meet V’s gaze. 

“Well,” he starts, then stops. “Well, why didn’t you just—knock! Or whatever! Shit.” He doesn’t understand why he’s getting angrier, only that he’s messed up and done something bullheaded again, and V’s got to be getting tired of dealing with it.

“My apologies,” V says, and that tightened sound goes even tighter. “I should have.” Like a wire being pulled at two ends. “I didn’t mean.” Like a drillbit touching glass.

“Whatever,” Nero snaps, reaching over V’s head to snatch the damn towel—

“Nero,” V breathes.

Nero snaps. “ _What_?” 

“You have to get off of me.”

It’s such a darkly said thing, so close to the edge of urgency that Nero’s petulance flatlines and he does two things: he remembers that he’s wet and naked, dripping stale tubwater all over the two of them, and he looks V in the face.

The other man is staring at Nero with an expression that makes his stomach bottom out, pupils huge, brows tensed, his mouth clearly hanging open—V, master of poise and poetry, _gaping_ , and when Nero realizes _he’s_ the thing being gaped at, he gets hot all over, like he’s back in the tub only the water’s boiling and he’s completely submerged, the air rolled out of his lungs. V’s eyes run the gamut of Nero’s body like a man seeing color after years in shadow, then they travel up to meet Nero’s own gaze, and for the first time Nero understands everything in those steelgrey eyes, loud as a fist to the face. 

Softly, forcibly steady (he’s not shaking, it’s the water, it’s the cold, it’s, it’s), Nero says, “Or what?”

And V surges up. A panther in a man’s skin.

 As soon as their mouths meet, Nero knows its this—this is the thing he’s been circling with V, a sharp, biting _want_ he wasn’t letting himself acknowledge because he didn’t understand it and couldn’t sit still long enough to try. V’s gloved hand pushes into Nero’s hair, grabbing tight at the short strands as he swims against Nero’s mouth, and Nero melts into it, a broken sound working its way past the lump in his throat. This. _This._

“Nero,” V gasps, breaking away, “I—” 

“Shut up,” Nero says, the words small in his mouth. He can’t stop now. He _can’t_ , even though he’s never done this with a guy and he only sort of knows how this goes. He’d rather get impaled by a demon tree than stop. “You better keep fucking kissing me.”

V does, sighing like he’s been holding his breath since birth, sucking Nero’s lip into his mouth and grabbing suddenly at his thigh. Nero’s thighs are big (they _have_ to be, he needs _strength_ to protect what he loves), but the way V squeezes makes him feel smaller, pliable. His other hand goes for Nero’s flank, thumb dragging along a hipbone.

“Help me up,” V croaks. “I don’t want to do this on the floor.”

As soon as Nero pulls them both upright, V’s leading him to the bed, and Nero tries not to think about this being someone else’s bed, someone else’s home—but then V draws up to his full height (why do a couple inches make his heart stutter?), and fits his chin in the slope of his hand. 

“I’ve wanted this, Nero,” he whispers. That stare.

Nero grabs him then, pulling them both down to the bed. V’s thinner than he is, certainly, and nowhere near as physically adept, but there’s a gut-melting confidence in the way he settles over Nero’s body, shrugging off his long coat as he slots their hips together. Nero nearly goes into cardiac arrest when he feels V’s hard cock through his pants, rutting soft and slow against Nero’s already-leaking dick.

“Oh my God,” he blurts, embarrassed by how keyed up he already is. He expects V to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, V leans down and kisses him again, open and wet, working his mouth like a delicate stitch. No one’s ever been this—this directive with Nero, this deliberate and precise. He feels like a ten story house of cards being taken apart, and he can’t believe how much he wants it.

Nero takes a shaking breath, trying to reign himself in. “V,” he says against the dark-haired man’s mouth. “I’m,” he gulps, his cock pulsing when V leans back to look him in the eye. “I, uh. I’ve only…” and he trails off, hating that he can’t say it, hoping V will help him, will take the lead, like he always does when Nero’s stumped. 

“I had a hunch,” V says, right up against Nero’s ear, and the way he _hears_ V’s smirk sends a shiver up his spine.

“But I’m not a pussy,” Nero adds. _What am I saying?_ “I mean, I’m not, like, afraid.” _Why am I such an idiot?_

“I had,” V says, hand trailing down, “another hunch.” And he wraps a long-fingered hand around Nero’s dick, thumb slipping on precum.

“ _Fuck_.” V’s just lightly jerking him but it feels _incredible_ , so different from anyone else he’s been with, different even from his own touch, and then V dips his head down and rolls his tongue against Nero’s nipple and he fucking _blushes_ at how wet that gets him. He can’t seem to get enough oxygen through his nose so he lets his mouth hang open, hips twitching as V keeps tonguing his chest.

V leans his cheek against Nero’s pectoral muscle, looking up through heavy lids. His eyelashes are so dark. It’s such a rich, unflinching stare that Nero’s eyes keep fluttering away.

“Nero,” V hums, letting go of Nero’s cock to work work at his other nipple. “Have you ever been fingered?”

The question nearly shatters him, and the desperate sound he makes is as much an answer as he can give.

V gives one last wet swipe to Nero’s chest, then moves into a sitting position. He pulls the glove off his other hand and rests two fingers against the bottom lip of Nero’s still-open mouth, then waits. A gentle request. Figures—Nero’s rock hard and practically drooling and V still wants to make sure he’s alright.

To answer, Nero slips his tongue down over the digits, coaxing them in with a low moan. V pushes both fingers into Nero’s mouth, fucking them in and out in a slow, dragging rhythm. He doesn’t understand why it feels as good as it does and it’s too much to look V in the face, so Nero looks at where he’s taken his own cock out of his pants, stroking it while Nero sucks eagerly at his fingers.

“Open,” says V, and Nero does, heart pounding as V swipes up a little extra saliva before moving his wet fingers down between Nero’s legs. He adjusts one of Nero’s legs until his foot is flat on the bed, pushes his other thigh aside; Nero feels exceptionally exposed and vulnerable, and V’s just _looking_ at him, looking _there_ , his tongue caught between his teeth while he jerks himself off. Nero’s cock is a hot brand against his stomach. He’s never been so turned on.

Just when he thinks he might have to ( _God_ , he can’t) ask for it, V slips his spit-covered fingers down past Nero’s balls and starts rubbing firm, steady circles around his asshole. “Oh fuck,” Nero gasps, hand flying up to cover his face. He can’t. He can’t.

“Nero,” V groans, and Nero really thinks he could listen to V say his name like that forever. “Let me see you. Please, Nero.”

Nero peels his hand away just V starts to push the first finger in, barely dipping into the tight ring before slinking back; it’s a teasing pressure that makes Nero’s cock jump, strange shocks of pleasure rippling from his entrance. It’s completely new and electric and and and—not at all enough.

He’s sure he looks like a fucked mess, heat bright in his cheeks and all down his neck, forehead wet with sweat, spit running down his chin, but Nero manages to open his eyes and look down to watch V’s wrist flexing between his thighs. V presses in more, sliding his finger in a little deeper. He twists gently, here—and it’s good, but he wants more, _more_.

“I’m not a fucking flower, V,” Nero bites, a little meaner than he meant it, but V gets him back when he complies, sinking himself to the knuckle in Nero’s ass. Nero drops his head back on the bed with a moan; _God,_ V’s fingers are long.

It’s more burn than pleasure right now, and V can probably tell because he doesn’t move his hand for a moment; instead, in a gesture Nero never dreamed possible, even in his darkest, nastiest dreams, V spits into his other hand and uses it to slick up Nero’s dick. Once he’s fully hard again, V starts moving his other hand—twisting, pumping shallowly, working Nero through the stretch.

“Breathe, Nero,” V soothes. “You’re doing so well.” And that—well, that’s not something Nero thought he needed to hear, but it jolts something inside him, something desperate for approval and assurance. He’ll never own up to the ensuing whimper.

V’s starting to go a little faster, now. “That’s right,” he says. “So good.” The burn’s mostly faded, and while Nero’s doing his best to even out his breathing, V changes his approach—he curls his finger a bit, rotating and circling, almost like he’s searching for—

“ _Fuck_ , fuck, fuck,” Nero yelps when V knocks up against something loud and starbright inside him. “Oh my god. Fuck.” He barely hears V’s satisfied groan as he digs into that spot again—he grabs a fistful of bedsheet and surges his hips back against V’s new, pointed rhythm. It’s like the world is glass and every time V touches him there, it shatters, reforms, shatters, reforms.

Everything smells like rosemary and V.

Nero’s almost wailing when V gets the other finger in; his thighs are shaking wildly and he’s drenched in sweat. He’d be self-conscious about the sharp, desperate sounds tumbling out of his throat if he could think about anything but the pleasure boiling under his skin. He can feel his dick leaking eagerly against his stomach as V keeps working that spot, fingering him with an unrelenting insistence now, dragging him closer and closer to an all new edge. “V,” he sobs, back arching off the bed. “V, I’m—please—”

All it takes is V jerking slickly at his dick—once, twice—and growling, “ _Nero_.” He careens into climax, breathless, cum roping across his torso. He can’t tell if his eyes are wet with sweat or tears, and his ears fill with a loud, dizzy ringing.

“V,” Nero sighs, head spinning. His vision is still color-splotched when he feels V shifting, crawling up his body.

“Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee, / Before I knew thy face or name,” V recites, griding his hard cock against Nero’s cum drenched stomach. He drags himself upwards until he’s practically sitting on Nero’s chest, then he reaches down and—oh God, pushes his pecs together. “So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame / Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be.”

V slots his cock into the valley formed by Nero’s flesh, the passage slippery with cum and sweat. V’s going to fuck his pecs. Nero can’t believe it—he _wants_ it, and somehow, though he’s utterly wrecked and he knows he’s not as young as he used to be, he feels himself twitch in new arousal. He might actually be crying now.

Limbs still buzzing, Nero grabs both of V’s hands in his one, helping as best he can despite his bones feeling like hot jam. V starts fucking his chest with gusto and Nero moans weakly.

“Still when, to where thou wert, I came,” V gasps, voice breaking, “Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.” V reaches down and pushes his thumb in Nero’s open mouth, just holds it there while he thrusts. Nero tries to lick it but his tongue feels like a slug in his throat. He probably looks like a fuckdrunk idiot, but V’s got that look on his face from earlier—a body wretched with want, dark hair slicked to his forehead and jaw—and he can't bear to close his eyes.

V’s gasps start to pitch higher, his thrusts getting erratic, and then he comes, groaning deeply. Nero watches the other man’s face reverently, the kiss-red lips, his pulse jumping in the flushed column of his throat. When he shoots on Nero’s face, it feels like an offering, like a prayer, so Nero, without thinking, opens his mouth, and V immediately slides the head of his cock in, riding out the rest of his orgasm.

Nero doesn’t think twice about swallowing—he even chases V’s thumb when he pulls it out, sucking like a greedy cat, then lets his head flop back on the bed, spent.

He feels like he just ran twelve miles. Through hell. And back.

He can hear V’s ragged breath overhead, but the other man doesn’t move. Nero cracks one eye open and sees him: dark, wild-haired, and…a little unsure. Worried, maybe.

“That’s new,” he mumbles, smiling to himself.

“What?” V rasps. It fills Nero with a gentler warmth to hear him so winded—to know _he_ did that. They did.

“C’mere,” Nero grunts, mustering the last of his strength to pull V down on top of him; V doesn’t resist, folding like paper against Nero’s messy chest.

V still doesn’t speak. His breath evens in Nero’s ear, but that’s all Nero hears from him. He’s quiet long enough that Nero starts to feel a little worried. “V? You asleep?”

“...you’ll need another bath,” V says, finally, his words rounded with fatigue.

Nero huffs in laughter. “Yeah, well. You and me both, buddy.”

“I would...like that,” V mutters. Nero thinks he feels a kiss against his jaw. Then he adds, “Later.” A beat. “Stay with me,” he says. Asks.

“Yeah,” Nero answers. “I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmfao what am I doing

_OH my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned_

_By sicknesse, deaths herald, and champion;_

_Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done_

_Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled,_

_Or like a thiefe, which till deaths doome be read,_

_Wisheth himselfe delivered from prison;_

_But damn’d and hal’d to execution,_

_Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned._

_Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke;_

_But who shall give thee that grace to beginne?_

_Oh make thy selfe with holy mourning blacke,_

_And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne;_

_Or wash thee in Christs blood, which hath this might_

_That being red, it dyes red soules to white._

                                                                                                —John Donne, Holy Sonnet IV

 

* * *

 

The storm persists. A day. Two days. Slug-thick droplets of whofuckingknowswhat pelt the windows, drum against the brick—and Nico’s getting worried.

“If this shit doesn’t let up, it’ll melt the building,” she says, chewing on a pencil. “Hell, it’ll melt the whole city.” She frowns at a windowpane. The glass is foggy with long, shallow streaks—tracks carved by the hungry rain.

“Dammit,” Nico says, and then Nero hears what sounds unsettlingly like the pencil snapping in half. “ _God_ dammit.”

“Chill out, Nico,” Nero says, sprawled on the couch. He receives a look that could crack a dozen eggs _and_ fry them.

“If I could _find_ a _single fuckin’ cigarette_ in this _stupid fuckin’ house_ …” she mutters, spitting out shards of wood as she stalks towards him. She doesn’t bother to move Nero’s legs out of the way, just throws herself on top of them—and not kindly.

“At this point,” Nero says, wincing, “I wish you could, too.”

Nico snorts. “Yeah, like you’re the perfect houseguest.” 

Nero’s worried too, but for different reasons. Well, yeah, he’s worried about Red Grave turning into pudding, and he’s worried about how much the Qliphoth has grown, and he’s worried about all those unchecked demons (though they’re at least keeping off the streets), not to mention he isn’t used to staying in one place for more than a couple of hours. The past few months have been nothing but movement—running, driving, fighting—and Nero’s practically vibrating with unspent energy— _God_ he wants to stab a demon—but he’s also—

—he’s also worried about V.

After they—after he—after the first night, V’d barely spoken to Nero. They must have fallen asleep, and when Nero woke up he was alone in the huge bed, filmy with old sweat and—well. He’d gotten up, washed himself practically, then wandered into the body of the house, doing his best not to look like a lonely labrador sniffing for its owner. He’d found Nico in the garage, and if she’d noticed the heat in his cheeks when he asked about V, she didn’t say anything.

“You see any coffee when you were scrounging around in there?” She asked, half-distracted by a toolbox she’d pulled from a rusted cabinet. “I’d kill for some coffee.”

“Yeah,” Nero had said, “better than the shit you make. That’d kill _me_.”

Nero dodged the screwdriver. Barely.

He’d made his way to the kitchen then, certain he’d at least seen some instant stuff, and if they were lucky it’d only be a couple months expired—and found V. Leaning against the counter, a mug gripped in his hands. He was looking down into the steam, looking _through_ it, with a gaze so sharp and angry that Nero felt the surprising urge to _run away._  

“Hey,” he’d said, before he could stop himself. V’s head snapped up, but by the time his eyes met Nero’s, the razorlike intensity was gone. Everything was gone—V’s face had been utterly blank.

“Nero,” he said. His voice had been soft, but not like—not like the other night, crooning in Nero’s ear, telling him _good, so good_ ; it was a polite softness, textureless, like someone trying to draw as little attention to themselves as possible. 

Nero couldn’t make himself say anything back. 

“There’s coffee,” V had said, and brushed past him.

He hasn’t seen V since then. Not when Nico nearly blew up the garage, not when he set up a makeshift pull-up bar in the dining room, not even when he’d gone back to the master bedroom and crawled into bed and breathed in the already-fading scent of rosemary and ash caught in his pillow, naked and lonesome. He’d stared at the door all night, confused and horny but too miserable to handle it.

Suddenly Nico perks up. “Say, they got any booze in here?”

Nero shrugs. “Doubt it. I didn’t see any in the pantry.”

“Nah, this is some swanky shit. Swanky don’t keep liquor in the kitchen.” Nico grins the grin that Nero loves but pretends to hate because Nico loves that he fake-hates it, crooked and toothy and _absolutely nuts_. “Swanky keeps liquor in the library.”

Nero hasn’t been back to the library since the first night—he’d actually sort of forgotten about it. “Really?”

“ _Hell_ yeah,” Nico says. “It’s a lot easier to convince yourself you ain’t got a problem when you’re drinkin’ scotch around a bunch of fancy old books instead of chugging chablis over the sink. I mean,” she clears her throat, “not that I’ve—I’m more of a red girl, so I wouldn’t know.”

Nero suspects that Nico very much does know.

Nico grinds her elbow into his already-brutalized calf. “Alright!” She whoops. “Go on! Get us some of that book whiskey.”

“Why do I have to do it?” Nero asks, even though he’s already getting up.

“Because,” Nico responds, grinning again, “I built that goddamn arm, and I want to watch it pour me a stiff one.

By the time Nero gets up the stairs, he’s convinced himself a drink or two can’t hurt. He doesn’t have a lot of experience with alcohol—growing up in a cult’ll do that—but he’s had enough to know it helps dim things too bright to look at. Quiet things too hard to hear 

_Breathe, Nero. You’re doing so well_.

By the time he makes it to the door that leads to the library, he’s ready to get hammered.

But when Nero shoves the door open, he spots a dark _thing_ lurking in the corner, red-eyed, foggy. It’s dripping with unease, Nero can sense it, _how did a demon get in here?_ and his hand’s already on Blue Rose when an arrogant voice overhead stops him.

“Cool it, kid.” It’s Griffon, jeering from his perch on top of a shelf. “You wanna fight, let’s take it outside.”

Nero lets his hand fall back to his side. On the other side of the room, the dark shape settles into something with edges, and the rest of Shadow forms around his two glowing eyes. The panther watches him silently.

“Outside? In this weather?” Nero says, looking back at Griffon. “And ruin my hair?”

Birds can’t smile, but something tells Nero Griffon’s amused. He likes the weird little guy, actually—he’s rude, cocky, counterintuitively graceful. Kind of like—

_You’re just dead weight_.

Ah, right. Alcohol.

“Seen any booze in here, Griffon?” Nero asks. “Between the demon rain and Nico, I could use a drink.”

“You’ll find a full decanter,” says a voice that makes Nero’s heart stop, somersault, and cannonball into his guts, “on the mantle. 

Of course. _Of course._ With Shadow and Griffon here—of _course_ V’s here, and even if they weren’t Nero should have known this is where he’d been hiding all this time. _I’m so stupid._

“Well,” V says, swirling a shallow glass of amber liquid in his hand, “almost full.” He’s in the far corner of the room in an old armchair, a book in his other hand. Shadow stalks over to him then, unsettlingly quiet. V’s face is half lit by a tall candle on a nearby table, and the other half glimmers in the sickly stormlight.

Nero’s head feels like it’s filled with ants, his forehead suddenly iced with sweat. Still, he manages to push past the rock in his throat, manages to muster enough bravado to joke: “We gotta stop meeting like this.”

V’s quiet a long, excruciating moment. Then his mouth quirks, small, so small, the faintest hint of the playful curl Nero has grown so fond of, so used to.

But real. There. He’ll take it. 

“We do,” V says.

Tamping his nerves like loose soil, Nero steps fully into the room. He doesn’t look at V as he makes his way over to the mantle and grabs a (ridiculously expensive-looking) bottle and a couple of (equally expensive-looking) glasses. “This stuff any good?" 

“It’s sufficient,” V says. His voice is comfortable, safe. Not the dull, empty tone from the other day…but not fully open, either. “I would not—how did Nico put it? I would not kick it out of bed for eating crackers.” 

“Nico literally eats crackers in bed,” Nero says. He leans back against the mantle now, facing V but still not looking at him. He’s inspecting the glasses in his hand. They’re decorated with intricate etchings, almost leaf-like. “I’ve seen her do it.” 

V laughs. It rolls over Nero like syrup.

“D’you,” he starts, then his voice cracks. _Fuck_. He coughs, taps his boot against the floor. “We’re, uh, Nico and I are downstairs. D’you want to join?” He holds up the glasses disarmingly, chancing a glance through the crystal.

Another pause. Longer, this time. “We cannot be sure when or if we will have an opportunity like this again,” V says. “To rest. This room is very...restorative for me.” It’s not a no, but it might as well be. Nero actually hates it _more_ than an outright no, because he feels like V’s dancing around him. Like he doesn’t think Nero can take the real answer. “You understand.”

“Sure, yeah,” Nero says, turning to leave, even though he _doesn’t_ understand, even though it _hurts_ , and he thinks he hears Griffon start to say something, but Nero doesn’t stop. He slams the door behind him.

* * *

 

He regrets the slam—what is he, _a kid_?—for roughly ten minutes, which is about the length of time it takes him to get through the first glass of whiskey. The liquor carves its way down his throat and sits in his empty stomach like a shoe, but Nero feels some of the tension start to leave his jaw, the acute ache of shame draining from his shoulders.

“So,” Nico says, already pouring herself a third. “You gonna tell me what’s up with you and Shakespeare?”

Nero gives her a dumb look that he, at first, means—then he connects the dots and tries to keep up the act. “What’re you talking about?”

“Ugh. Listen,” Nico says. She’s sitting crosslegged on the floor while Nero’s on the couch, and as she leans in she props one sharp elbow on the cushion next to his leg. “I’ve watched y’all dance around each other for _months_. Like a couple of goddamn damselflies. It about drove me crazy.” Nero doesn’t say anything—maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s the memory of V sitting on his chest, but he can’t make himself deny it.

“So how come,” she continues, “as soon as we find this little loveshack, y’all aren’t fucking each other’s brains out?”

Okay, that one makes Nero squirm a little. He takes a long pull of his drink, almost chokes on it. For once, Nico’s quiet. Waiting. Giving him time to figure out what he wants to say, and how much. She’s looking up at him with the same face she has on during the small, meticulous parts of her projects—where the wrong move could undo hours or days or even weeks of work. Through the thickening fog in his brain, Nero realizes what an exceptionally good person Nico is.

“Well,” he says through tight lips. “I guess I’m as bad at sex as I am at protecting my friends.”

Nico screws up her face. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Nero curses. “It means something—something happened the first night, and I must have fucked up because V won’t even talk to me, now. I ruined it. Like everything else.” He knocks back the last of what’s in his glass.

“I know that ain’t right,” Nico says, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t peg you for a _great_ lay, but you’re cute enough to make up for it.” She gives his leg a playful squeeze, and Nero wonders for the umpteenth time how the hell she can say the stuff she says. “Besides, did you ever see how V looked at you? Well, no, I guess you didn’t. Nero, V was _huntin’_ you. Sometimes I didn’t know whether Shadow was the man or the cat.” She pauses here, laughs to herself. “Man-cat.”

“Really?” Nero asks. Normally, he would _never_ let himself fish like this, hungry for assurance, but this was Nico. And he was kind of drunk.

“Hell yeah! And there’s no way someone that fired up’d be put off by one weird fuck.” She shrugs. “And first time’s always weird, anyway.”

It’s not…the most reassuring thing to hear, but Nero thinks he gets where Nico’s coming from. “How do you know?”

“I’m a _genius,_ dummy.”

“No, I mean, like…” Nero drags a bitten-down thumbnail through the design on his glass. “How do you know it’s…like that? And not something else? Like, maybe you’re right.” He charges ahead, bulldozing Nico’s _I_ am _right_ with his own, slightly frantic insistence: “But maybe I really did screw it all up. Maybe I made him do something he didn’t want to. Maybe he just fucking felt bad for me.”

And there it is. The seed, the root, the ugly thing buried in his heart and beginning to blossom, fed on his grief, his loss, the shattering echo of Dante questioning his worth. He couldn’t protect his friends, Red Grave, the closest thing he has to family. He couldn’t even stop some stranger from ripping his arm off in his own home, the place he’d finally started to feel was _his_. Who wouldn’t feel sorry for someone like that?

“Well, have you asked him?” Nico’s question drags Nero back into the present. He stares at his empty glass.

“No,” he admits.

“Why the _hell_ not?” Nico yells—like, _really_ yells, to the extent that Nero feels genuinely reprimanded.

“I, uh,” he starts, but Nico cuts him off.

“Nero, you dumbass, go find that goth fencepost and _ask him what the problem is_. You can’t fix what you don’t know ain’t broke. Or something like that. Whatever.”

“But—”

“No buts! Go! Wait, here.” She drizzles a little more whiskey in his glass and coaxes it to his mouth; Nero, swept up in the storm-that-is-Nico, drinks it. “Now, go!"

* * *

 

And Nero goes, back up the stairs, back down the hall, back to the door to the library. His head is swimming. A dim voice tells him this is probably a bad idea, but another, louder voice is saying this is a _great_ idea, and who the _fuck_ does V think he is? _I’ll show you dead weight_.

Nero nearly falls through the door when he opens it. His blood rushes with anger, and it only pumps harder when he sees V still perched in his stupid chair, book in hand.

“Nero,” V says, clearly surprised to see him again. Shadow and Griffon are gone—banished to the darkness, or wherever they go when V doesn’t need them.

“I don’t get you,” Nero blurts. “I like you.” What is he saying? “What the fuck do you want from me?”

V, for the first time in Nero’s memory, is speechless. He looks sincerely shocked, and Nero takes a mean pleasure in that. 

“You said you wanted it. That.” Something hot gathers in his throat, and Nero prays that it isn’t vomit. “You asked me to _stay._ But then you fucking cold-shoulder me. What’s your problem?”

“Nero, I—”

“I know I’m not a great person. I know I fuck everything up.” Nero’s clenching his fists so tight that the metal one shrieks. This isn’t what he came up here to say, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. “But I don’t want your pity.” He stares V dead in the eye, but he can’t even register the other man’s facial expression through his own mortified fury. “I’m _enough_. I’m _fine_ without you.”

Who is he trying to convince?

“That isn’t—” 

“Then what is it, huh?” That distance voice again: _you’re supposed to be talking to him,_ with _him,_ but the other voice drowns it out, frenzied and bestial. “I trusted you, V.”

That’s the thing that stops him. That’s the thing he wishes he could grab out of the air and shove back in his mouth, grind to dust, and swallow. Having a crush on V? Fine. Wanting to fuck him? Also fine. But _trusting_ him, giving him that much leverage, that much control over Nero, and letting him _know_ about it—oh, no.

And he can’t take it back, now.

“Whatever,” he spits, turning his back to V so the other man won’t see his deep, shameful flush. “I’ll stay away. Just—don’t be so fucking weird when we get back out there, okay?”

Nero doesn’t shut the door this time, and he doesn’t go back downstairs with Nico. He feels like if he touches anything, says anything, he’ll explode. He considers going outside—fuck the rain, just for a bit, just until he finds an empusa to clobber—but he imagines how pissed Nico would be trying to buff the scores out of Red Queen and heads for the master bedroom instead.

Once he’s inside, he leans back against the door and slides down, one fist curled painfully tight in his hair. Why had he let Nico talk him into this? Why had he said what he said? Why had he even opened his stupid mouth at all? Desperate to spend some of the fight singing in his blood, Nero gets up and stomps to the bed. Teeth bared, he grabs a pillow and throws it against the wall, _hard_. Then he grabs another, throws it too. He throws a third, a short, animal sound leaping out of his throat, and this one explodes in a burst of feathers, clipping an ornate lamp. The lamp topples down, and it’s the sound of the bulb popping against the floor that breaks Nero out of his frenzy. 

He’s tired suddenly. Bone-tired. There’s glass and feathers all over the floor. Nero’s dizzy, panting, and he doesn’t want to think. Spent, he drags himself to the bathroom, drinks some water from the tap. On his way back, he manages to step out of his boots before falling into bed.

Sleep takes him quickly, but not before he sees V speechless in his chair. V with glowing red eyes. V.

* * *

 

It’s so dark in the room when Nero wakes up that he doesn’t realize he’s woken up at all, but a dry throat and a low throb in his brow assure him otherwise. He really shouldn’t’ve had whiskey on an empty stomach.

He doesn’t know what time it is. He wonders if Nico went to bed already. He sits up and rubs a hand down his sleep-slicked face, then frowns when he realizes he’s still dressed. Clumsy with sleep, Nero pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, and he’s already unbuttoning his pants when he figures out he isn’t alone. He freezes.

“That’s a good way to get your head blown off,” Nero says to the long, somber shadow by the door. “Hiding in the dark.”

V’s statue-still. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Nero just grunts in response and returns to undressing. 

“I brought you a glass of water.” Nero, his eyes adjusting in the dark, glances quickly, cooly at V—there is, indeed, a glass in his hand. Nero wants to ignore him, but his parched throat has other demands so he stands and walks over to V, shucking his pants. Wearing just his underwear, he takes the glass from the other man’s hand, careful that their fingers don’t touch.

Nero drinks deeply, theatrically. He even tilts his head back and lets a little water slip from the corner of his mouth, running down his jaw. He doesn’t know what he’s putting on a show for—maybe he’s trying to embarrass V, or maybe he’s trying to prove that he _isn’t_ , but he doesn’t care. He finishes the glass and sets it aside. “Thanks,” he says, voice thin.

“I hoped we might talk,” V says, quietly.

“Let’s not,” Nero groans, turning away and rubbing his face again. “Let’s just…forget about it? I hate this.”

V inhales. Exhales. “I misrepresented my interest.”

Nero prays, _prays_ for a Qliphoth root to burst through the floor and drag him screaming down into hell. “You really don’t have to do this.”

V sighs, and it’s a strange sound. Not V sighing—Nero’s heard that before dozens of times (in a variety of contexts, now). It’s just…it sounds like V’s _irritated_. 

“You know what? Fine,” he says, turning back to face the other man. He’s fully adjusted to the darkness, now, so he can see exactly how uncomfortable V is: deep-set frown, knuckles white around the head of his cane. Somehow it just makes Nero want to dig deeper, fuck the consequences. “Say it. Say you felt bad for me.”

What he doesn’t expect is V’s eyes going wide.

What he doesn’t expect is V saying, as though he’d only just realized it himself, “That’s not the case. Not at all.”

What he doesn’t expect is the followup: “I was frightened by the rightness of being with you.”

Nero blinks. Says, “Oh.”

V continues, staring at Nero. “I am…in many ways, not a full person. Not whole. But this is all I’ve ever known. Incompletion is familiar to me, almost comfortable. Imagine how strange,” he tilts his head, “to be filled, suddenly. To be entire. I—I did not know what I lacked, and when I—when you gave it to me, Nero,” here, V looks down, as though in shame, “I did not feel I deserved it.”

Nero feels drunk again, or like he’s dying—he’s not sure which. “So,” he says, but is unable to find what comes next. A huge silence opens up between the two of them.

“I question my worthiness,” offers V, clipped and uncompromising. Nero _laughs_.

“No, sorry,” Nero says quickly, responding to V’s horrified expression. “It’s just…I thought it was something stupid like—like I was a bad kisser or something. Jesus Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair and realizes he’s shaking. He feels like he’s just run ten miles. He thinks he might cry.

“You’re a very good kisser,” V says, so grave that Nero laughs again.

“Do you want to, uh,” Nero starts, and he’s _truly_ sick of not saying what he wants to say, but even with his heart doing happy jumping-jacks in his chest he still finds himself faltering, unsure, careful.

V just—lets go of his cane. It hits the ground with a _crack_. “Yes.”

He thinks he’s probably supposed to—to what? Carry V to the bed? Let V carry him? Hold…his hand? _Shit._ He’s panicking. Without looking to see if he’s followed, Nero walks quickly to the bed and sits down.

“Watch the, um, lamp,” he says, gesturing at the scatter of ceramic and lightbulb shards on the floor.

V regards him for a moment, and Nero remembers what Nico said earlier: _Did you ever see how V looked at you?_ He makes himself do it now, makes himself look V in the eyes, makes himself understand what he’s seeing: _hunger, fever, want._ Then V crosses the room.

When V gets to him, Nero’s already sweating. The other man hesitates, something else flashing across his face. He looks like he’s going to ask another question, maybe even step back, but Nero _can’t fucking deal_ with this. He reaches out and grips V’s black-clad thigh, not pulling, but not letting the other man retreat either. He feels the muscle spasm under his fingers.

Nero, looking up, croaks, “Please, V.”

And V _exhales_ into him, onto him, leaning down into Nero’s mouth. He places both hands on Nero’s face, holding his jaw like he’s cupping water from a font, though it’s Nero that feels like he’s drinking—drinking in V, his scent, the swim of his lips.

Nero’s grip tightens on V’s leg, his other hand leaping into V’s hair. A sound passes between them—maybe his, maybe V’s, but it’s low and soft and happens again when Nero catches his canine against the other man’s full lower lip. “Sorry,” he gasps, but evidently V doesn’t mind, tonguing the raw spot with a wicked look.

Nero—doesn’t whimper, not exactly, but a strained noise fights its way out of his throat and he eagers his way into another kiss, edging his fingers up V’s leg, under his coat, his thumb plucking at the place where hem meets hip. V twitches. One of his hands slide down from Nero’s jaw and settles just above his collar, like he’s searching for a shirt to grab; as it stands, the soft slope between his thumb and index finger presses lightly against Nero’s bare throat.

Nero’s dick throbs. He pushes his thumb through one of V’s belt loops and tries to hook him closer. V follows the momentum, dragging his slick lips across Nero’s cheek, to his ear, rushing him with hot breath. Nero shivers, a full-body quake. The hand near his throat heavies itself, inching slightly higher—between that and V’s tongue in his ear, Nero feels light-headed. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, reaching for himself. He’s already leaking through his underwear. He squeezes the base, trying to reign himself in—there’s so much he wants, so much he wants to do, _he has to get it together_ —

“V,” he gasps, letting go of himself to grasp the other man’s (thin, _dangerous_ ) wrist. V eases up, then, moving to cradle his cheek again. “V, can I—I want—”

“Anything,” V answers, too quickly, not enough poetry, it’s terrifyingly honest. “Anything you want, Nero.”

Nero steels himself. “I want to suck your cock.”

While V’s processing, he slides forward, knees clocking the hardwood. The pain barely registers. He’s already leaning into V’s crotch, finding the shape of him under fabric. Nero barely knows himself, mouthing V’s cock through his pants, hungry, desperate, V’s shocked moan trickling down his spine. He’s grateful when V reaches down to unfasten himself, because at this point Nero’s too drunk on scent and heat to manage it on his own.

When V pulls his cock out, Nero drags his lips down the side, crushing his nose against V's knuckles at the base. The smell is so—so human, so _V_ , it makes his pulse jackrabbit. Nero turns his head then, licking a long, single stroke back up to the tip.

He pauses. He’s never sucked dick before. He doesn’t—well, he _does_ know what to do, but wants to do it right, wants to do it _good_. In the dim light, he can just see the slick track he’d just made and the sight alone is enough to boil him alive, but he needs—he needs something, needs encouragement. He glances up.

He finds V looking back at him. Wrecked. The hand that isn’t on his cock is holding one of the bed posters for support— _really_ hard, if the tendons straining through his skin mean anything. And his eyes— _shit_ , his eyes are so dark, so intense. Nero isn’t sure he’s ever seen such a thick black, and he’s more or less gazed into the void.

Captivated, still watching V’s face, he sucks the head into his mouth. Salt blooms across his tongue; V groans. Nero steadies himself by holding the back of V’s knees, then starts to take more of the hot weight into his mouth. He slides down as much as he can, his nose bumping against V’s shaking fingers, then pulls back, enjoying the slow stroke of cock on his tongue, V breathing hard through his nose. He can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe he’s on his knees, can’t believe just _doing this_ is so hot, and—

In a surge of guts, Nero pulls back to say, “Help me.”

“Yes,” V answers, letting go of his cock to grip the back of Nero’s head. He angles, then pushes himself back into Nero’s open mouth, fucking gently, leisurely. Nero’s eyes droop in bliss, then close in concentration as V starts to go a little faster, a little harder. He fucks Nero’s mouth in short, shallow thrusts, his breath heavy.

_Please_ , Nero thinks. _Please say it._ Saliva tracks down his chin.

And then, breathless, like a benediction: “So _good_ , Nero.”

Nero chokes. He can’t take it anymore. While V’s using his mouth, he yanks down the front of his boxers and pumps himself, mortified and thrilled by how wet he is. He does his best to match V’s rhythm. If even a fraction of his brain was operating at normal capacity instead of going electric-white from pleasure, he’d be worried about how short the other man’s breath is; instead, all he can think about is pressure, heat, the dick in his mouth, his own rigid in his grip—

And Nero comes, comes _a lot_ , rasping desperately around V. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so blissed out. V’s bumping against the back of his throat now, the pace ragged, saliva trailing like lace on Nero’s chest. As he’s working through the last rolls of his orgasm, shuddering, he hears V mutter—no, _chant_ his name, “Nero, Nero, look at me, please Nero—”

Nero looks up, realizes his lashes are sticky with tears. V looks like his skin can barely hold him. Weakly, Nero trails his filthy hand down his chest, smearing his own come on his skin, in the valley of his muscles, where V had—

V’s hips stutter. He gasps. His mouth hangs open as he comes down Nero’s throat, his dark hair sweat-slicked. Nero drinks of him ardently. He closes his eyes.

When V says his name next, it’s barely audible. Nero sit back on his knees, turning to wipe his mouth on his shoulder—and finally hears the man’s wounded breath, feels his legs about to buckle. Nero hurries to stand—wobbles at first, a little unsteady himself—and gets his arms around V’s waist. V lets go of the bed poster and just…sinks into him.

“Hey,” Nero soothes, wedging back panic. “I got you.” He leads V to the side of the bed, helps him undress. V’s breath gets steadily more regular, sweat cooling on his throat. He watches as Nero looks for a place to set V’s hastily folded coat and pants, which is not something Nero would ever bother doing for himself, but he feels weird throwing V’s stuff on the floor with his own stuff. Eventually he just piles them on a bedside table.

For a second, Nero has the impulse to leave— _he shouldn’t be here, he should give V space_ —but he’s done with that game. Performing a casualness he _absolutely does not feel_ , Nero sheds his boxers and slides into the other side of the bed. Considering what they’d just done, he has no idea why he feels so awkward—but then again, he does. Neither of them are used to this kind of intimacy. This mutually agreed-upon vulnerability. He lies on his back, eyes shut in a way that is _calm and relaxed and very much not forced and uncomfortable_. 

Shifting, Nero cracks one eye to peek at the body next to him.

V’s on his side, watching him. Soft, tired, thoughtful, like he’s trying to read a time-smudged paperback. It startles Nero enough to open both eyes and look at him properly.

V speaks first. “This is what I meant,” he says. “About worthiness.”

And Nero, goddammit, he _blushes_. Dick in his throat is fine, but V looking at him like he’s something precious? Oh, boy.

“Shut up,” Nero grumbles, good-natured. He’s fighting off a smile, and somehow his face is getting _warmer_. 

V’s hand finds his arm under the comforter, slides down to his wrist. Nero takes the cool, long-fingered offering.

“It is my heart that’s late,” V murmurs, fingers stroking the valleys between Nero’s knuckles. “It is my song that’s flown.”

Nero lessens some of the space between them. He can feel V’s breath slowing against his cheek, and he closes his eyes. He thinks he hears one last whisper before drifting off, but he isn’t sure what’s dream and what’s V.

_What makes the engine go? / Desire, desire, desire._

* * *

The next time Nero wakes up, he—again—thinks he’s still asleep. Why else would he find V next to him, face pearly and calm in the morning light? Hair pooling around his head like oil, lashes dark against his ghost-pale eyelids. Those _incredible_ lips _just_ parted.

Nero’s fingers twitch, and that’s when he realizes they’re still laced with V’s. His heart, oh God, his heart feels like a hot air balloon, rising in his throat.

V stirs. Nero senses that he’s awake before he opens his eyes. Swallowing down the solar eclipse happening inside him, Nero squeezes V’s hand.

V’s eyes float open, his pupils huge and unfocused. So different from how he usually looks, pin-sharp and deliberate. V regards him with the softest look, then blinks, the corners of his mouth ghosting upwards. “Good morning, Nero,” he says, in a voice so perfectly sleep-hoarse Nero thinks he might take up writing poetry after all.

“You, too,” Nero responds, stunned, letting himself smile like a sun-starved lunatic because V’s closed his eyes again. He feels the bed move as V stretches out his legs, a pleased, strained sound creeping out of his throat, and oh, _oh shit_ , Nero realizes: he’s super,  _super_ hard right now. 

He thinks before he would have rolled away, or covered himself, or slunk off to the bathroom, but he remembers V’s ragged breath last night, the way he’d begged Nero to look at him. Swallowing around salt and warmth. Another part of him thinks this could still be a dream, and if it isn’t, he doesn’t care. He makes himself believe his desire isn’t a burden.

Nero hooks his foot around V’s ankle, tugging the other man’s leg between his own—not close enough to touch anything important, but…there’s an implication. 

V opens his eyes again. He’s _much_ sharper now. Darker. Nero sort of huffs a little bit, flexes his thighs.

V’s hand leaves Nero’s, jumps down to the heavy leg slung over his, then pauses. His voice, still a little drowsy, sounds almost apologetic when he says, “I…I’m afraid I may not be able to—I was rather, ah, enthusiastic recently, and I cannot always predict what will drain me—that is to say—”

“It’s fine,” Nero interrupts, because V’s babbling, which is amazing and endearing and he wants to hear _much_ more of this nervy, apologetic V, but also he’s got an idea.

“What if you just lay there? I mean, not—I don’t mean _lay_ there lay there, but…I could go on top.”

V regards him thoughtfully. “You want to fuck me, Nero?”

Nero shivers, feels himself get even harder. “N-no, I—well, sure, sometime. But.” Shit. Fuck. Is he _ever_ going to be cool about this? “I still want you…inside. But I can, uh. Help out.”

V considers. He considers longer than Nero thinks is necessary, until Nero starts to squirm and blush, and that’s when he realizes V _wants_ him to squirm, is doing this _on purpose_. The absolute bastard.

V massages his way up Nero’s thigh, up to his ass. Gripping the flesh, looking all the world like the devil’s distant cousin, V presses a slow, shallow kiss to Nero’s mouth. Then he whispers, “Show me, Nero.”

Nero can’t stop the needy “ _fuck_ ” that escapes as he chases V’s mouth, sucking his lip. He hauls himself closer, pleasantly surprised to find that V—whatever he is, whatever amalgamation of human and demon—is not immune to morning wood. Nero, clumsy with delight, grinds himself against V’s hip while the other man teases his fingers in the crack of Nero’s ass.

“So eager,” V admires, or admonishes—Nero’s not sure, but it makes him horny as hell either way.

Gradually, Nero shifts so he’s on top of V, supporting himself with his elbows and knees. His cock hangs heavy and blood-filled between them, leaping each time V’s fingers brush against his asshole—short, teasing touches. V’s got to be doing it on purpose.

The color in V’s cheeks stands out sharply against his incredibly pale skin, his shadow-black eyes. Nero can’t bear to look as he grabs one of V’s wrists and drags his hand up to his chest. Breathing wetly against V’s neck, he flattens the other man’s palm over his nipple, hoping the suggestion is clear.

V asks him anyway, cruel silk in his ear, “Do you want something, Nero?”

_Can’t say it. Can’t_. Nero makes a pleading sound, digging his tongue into V’s neck.

“Is this what you want?” V slowly wheels his hand against Nero’s nipple. “You want me to touch you here?”

Nero gasps, nods. Has no idea why it feels so good, how he never knew. V lightens his touch so just the tip of Nero’s nipple drags against his damp palm, and Nero moans against his throat, feels himself drip on V’s stomach. 

V has both hands on his chest, now, trailing the pads of his fingers against Nero’s stiffened nipples, squeezing the full flesh of his pecs. He turns his head, seeking Nero’s mouth where its buried in V’s shoulder. Nero meets him, open-mouthed, moaning. 

God, he’s so—he’s so worked up it _hurts_ , and he’d be happy just to let V play with his chest if he didn’t—if he didn’t _want_ —

Nero pulls back from the kiss with a wet sound, straightening, sitting back. “I want—” he starts, then trips on his breath when he feels the hot arc of V’s cock against his ass, “ _oh_ my God, I want—fuck me, V.” 

V’s brows are drawn together, his lips wet. He reaches up and behind him, grabbing one of the headboard’s metal bars, and pulls himself up into a sitting position. As he does this, the muscles in his arms—sinuous, practiced—jump into definition, and _fuck_ , that’s hot.

Nero crawls after him, snugs himself into V’s lap, pushing their cocks together. Briefly, V indulges, eyes closed, head lolling, but then he places a gentle hand low on Nero’s stomach. _Wait_. Nero does.

V reaches into his piled clothes on the bedside table and pulls out a small tube—Nero’s too wound up to worry about where it came from. All he can think is _yes yes please he’s going to I’m going to yes V_. Hot all the way from his scalp to his collarbones, Nero sits up on his knees, aware that his thighs are shaking but absofuckinglutely beyond care.

He jumps when the first slick finger finds his asshole. Why does it feel so _fucking_ good? Like there’s a whole network of hidden nerves in his body, and V knows exactly how to fire them off. V presses against the muscle, but doesn't do it hard enough to push in. Nero tries making him by rolling his hips back, but then V eases off. 

“Come _on_ ,” Nero whines, aware that he sounds like a brat but too stupid with need to do anything about it. V, to Nero’s surprise, complies immediately, working one fingertip in. _Fuck_ fuckfuckfuck, is he going to come already? Nero drops his forehead to V’s shoulder and focuses on his breath, but he trips every time V’s finger slips deeper, crooking, twisting, and he keeps— _forgetting_ —how _impossibly_ long the other man’s fingers are, and so, so dangerous—

V’s barely got the second finger in when Nero chokes, “You—you have to fuck me now. Please. I’m, I can’t—”  
  
“Nero,” V says, voice barely more than a growl; he’s making an effort to sound hesitant, but Nero hears it, under the fragile propriety: V’s not far off, either.

“You _have_ to, V, God, please just—I’m dying, just put it in.” He wants it, he wants it so bad he’s finally, _finally_ willing to beg. He wants a new and steeper fullness, he wants—V’s dick buried in his ass.

“You are,” V says, looking more animal than he ever has, “astonishing.” But he’s there, angling his cock (slicked, somehow) so it pushes between Nero’s cheeks. Thick, swollen. _Oh my God._

They pause there for a moment—both frenzied men shrugging off the shroud of hunger briefly, so briefly, just long enough to recognize the enormity of what they’re doing. Then V fits his free hand to the small of Nero’s back, so tender Nero’s vision blurs.

Steady, V coaxes Nero down, stroking his thumb up and down the bit of spine he can reach. The pressure against Nero's asshole is radiant, scalding—not entirely pleasant, but so filthy and strange that it doesn’t deter him. It’s definitely _more_ , though. He wants it in, _now_ , but he knows he has to be patient. Nero's not very good at being patient.

“Slowly,” V encourages. “Relax.” He pumps his hand up his cock, knuckles brushing Nero’s stretched hole, and _that_ nearly knocks Nero out. His legs give, briefly, and he sinks down almost a full inch before he catches himself—Nero’s blood _sings_ , his skin _sparks_ , and V’s head falls back against the headboard.

They work together, Nero easing himself down, sweat rolling down his back, and V soothing him, praising him, occasionally rocking up when he think Nero can take it. They do this until Nero—with a sob—feels hot skin against his ass, V fully sheathed inside him.

He’s twitching all over, abdominal muscles flexing. It feels like his body’s so packed with feeling that it’s doing whatever it can to spend the excess so Nero doesn’t just—burn out. V’s inside him. _Fucking him_. V fixes his hands at Nero’s waist, then asks like a man pretending he's not seconds from the grave, “Ready?”

Nero nods.

V doesn’t lift him—he couldn’t Nero thinks, not now, and besides, Nero said he’d do all the work—but he does guide him, tugging him upwards by the hips. The feeling of V’s dick dragging along his insides is _delirious._ “Shit, shit,” Nero stutters. He needs support. He reaches behind V and grabs onto the brass bars. Better.

It doesn’t take long for Nero to adjust—or for V’s breathing to get short, so he knows he has to take over. He does, gripping the headboard tight and calling for strength from above, below, _wherever_ , so long as he can feel more of V, make V feel good— 

“God, Nero,” V moans, and Nero’s gone. 

He rides V’s cock as best he can—not flawlessly, not at a perfect rhythm, but with all the eagerness and want and hurt and rightness he’s felt since meeting V, since kissing him on the floor and tripling every ounce of longing in his gut. It’s wet work, sweat and precome and lube gathering in the creases of their bodies. At one point, Nero misjudges and V’s dick pops out, and he feels suddenly _so_ lost, _so_ bereft that he actually cries out.

V shakily guides himself back in, and something about the new angle is—it’s _better_ , so much better, and if Nero leans back some, if he sort of hangs from the bars, he wonders—

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” Nero blurts when V’s dick knocks against _that place_ , that cluster of firework inside him. V tries to meet him, now, hips connecting with Nero’s ass in a horrifying (beautiful, musical) _slap_. Nero can’t hold his head up anymore, and he thinks it’s possible he’ll die right here, absolutely fried from the heat pulsing through his body.

Nero gathers the strength to look at V, finds the man watching the meeting of their bodies with a ferocity Nero’s never seen on him before. He chokes out a sound, wordless, not even sure what he wants to convey, but V seems to know. He wraps a hand around Nero’s painfully swollen cock, then—then he _spits_ on it, uses that to slick his grip.

Honestly, V doesn’t even have to move his hand.

Nero comes with a cry that starts in the lowest, warmest part of him, then crawls up his body and into his head and _cracks_ _him open_. He feels the brass buckle under his grip, hears, distantly, V call his name, then he’s flooded with _hot good wet it’s V it’s V it’s V_.

V brings him through it, stroking, laying open-mouthed kisses on his chest. When Nero’s limbs unlock, he sways, sags, leans his full weight on the slighter man. V bears it, not even complaining that Nero's trapped his hand between them.

Finally, Nero musters the strength to climb off of V. When they separate, Nero’s nerves spark weakly. Then he frowns.

V sees. He clears his throat, looking almost…bashful. “I apologize. I might have—I should have, ah.”

“S’fine,” Nero mutters, wiping at the wetness between his legs as discreetly as possible. “It’s, uh,” _kind of hot that you came inside me_ , he wants to say, but he can’t. V fusses with a stray string on the comforter.

“You still owe me,” Nero says, pausing for a powerful yawn, “a bath.”

V brightens. Nero’s glad he doesn’t look as devastated as he did last night, after.

“I—” V starts.

As if on cue, there’s a knock at the door. Nico’s voice blasts into the room, a twangy cock-a-doodle-doo. “Come on, boys. Rise n’ shine.” Nero goes cold. “Y’all had your fun, but it’s time to get on the road!”

They realize it at the same time: “It’s not raining.” Hasn’t been since they’d woken up.

“Meet at the van in ten!” Nico hoots. Nero listens to her stomping down the hall and down the stairs. He has the deep and dreadful realization that Nico was probably waiting for them to finish.

But V’s smiling. He trails his fingers down Nero’s arm. “Next time,” he says.

Nero smiles back.

* * *

 Later, when they’re stopped for a demon-hunt, Nico calls after Nero:

“You can fuck in the van, but you gotta let me watch.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all: where did V get lube
> 
> me: *holding several pints of ice cream at once* get off my DICK
> 
> (the poem V quotes in the fic is Stanley Kunitz’s “Touch Me,” which tbh is probably a little too ~*contemporary*~ for V but I love it and I wanted to include it, so! there!)


End file.
